Road Kill
by Silence of the Wolves
Summary: Author: Rhanon Brodie Leah is behind the wheel, but who is under the tires? AU. Silence of the Wolves Contest entry.


**Silence of the Wolves Contest**

**Title: Road Kill**

**Author: Rhanon Brodie**

**Author's Homepage: ****http[:]/www[.]fanfiction[.]net/~rhanonbrodie**

**Main Players: Leah, Paul, Sam**

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own em', glad I don't, although I swear I saw Paul lurking in my backyard last night...**

**To see other Contest entries, please visit the Contest's FanFiction page:**

**http:/www(.)fanfiction(.)net/u/2269000/Silence_of_the_Wolves**

* * *

There had to be a way to kill him. There was no way that they were…_immortal_. That was just something reserved for that show that ran late night on Sci-Fi. And even those immortals weren't immortal. They died when their heads got cut off. Most people would, too.

The thought of killing him or even her had been on her mind for over a year now and she thought that it might have gone away after a few months. If anything, it intensified, to the point where being the same room as the two of them made her want to blow her own brains out with her dad's shotgun and paint the bedroom walls with her brains, but that wasn't an option. She rather enjoyed her life, for the most part, _except_ for those two.

Fucking Emily and that mutherfucker Sam.

Fuck em' both.

Now if only there was a way to kill them.

She'd heard it could be done, but it would have to be quick and it would have to be terrible. Deliberate, too. She could do deliberate. She could to quick and terrible, although slow and horrific would be much more satisfying.

_If you're planning on it, give me a head's up. I wouldn't want to miss it._

Shit. Paul had caught her thoughts like a line drive over home plate and she quickly blocked him out. He didn't mention it again, but she'd catch him watching her as she calculated things, as she watched and observed and plotted against fucking Emily and that mutherfucker Sam.

She _knows_ it's not Sam's fault. Not entirely. And certainly less than half. Because if Leah had to guess – if she was asked whether or not she believed any of that imprint crap and her life was on the line she'd admit it freely. She'd seen too much, experienced so much hurt, pain, confusion, love, lust, desire…and she'd experienced it vicariously, to the point of dreams and waking up shaking some nights. She'd lived all of their loves, whether she had wanted to, or not. She understood the commitment to an imprint, the unyielding, unending love, the concept of it, at least. Nothing could stop an imprint except for the rejection of one, like when Rachel left Paul the second year. That or death. But she couldn't kill Emily – she couldn't to that to mutherfuckin' _Sam_ because Leah knew she could never live with herself and be the source of that pain – the pain of a severed imprint.

So she'd kill just Sam. Or at least she'd try. She'd kill him and fucking Emily would be so goddamn broken. And Leah wouldn't really care because then Emily would know, and Emily would understand just how broken Leah had been.

Emily would never have Sam again, either.

So she'd just kill Sam.

_Okay, so we'll just kill Sam_.

Fuck. Stop thinking about it.

_Yeah, Leah, stop thinking about it._

He mocked her and it stung. It always stung from him and she just wanted to roll over, submissive to him and only, forever to him. She'd imprinted on Paul, plain and simple, and she'd managed to keep her poker face. Girls were _way_ cooler about this.

She couldn't hide it from mutherfuckin' Sam, though. Fucking Alpha dog rules, pissing on trees and claiming what it wanted. He'd cornered her in the forest after patrol, after the others had phased and gone to meet at Emily's table, and demanded in that fucking Alpha voice, that she tell him whatever she so desperately wanted to keep a secret. He knew the corners of her mind well, knew when she was blocking, even someone so practiced as she. And when she'd spat her confession, her eyes burning the whole time, he'd _muth-er-fuck-in'_ Alpha dogged her. No thoughts of it, because Paul would know, and so would the rest of the pack. The Alpha wouldn't give up a former mate to his Beta, since said Beta was Paul-fucking-Malone and he's no good. Like _Sam_ had a say. But apparently the fucking Alpha did.

_Serious projection here, sweetheart._

FUCK! _Seriously?_ Frustration courses through her and she swings her head to Paul who backs up a pace, ducking his head down slightly.

_Yeah. I don't know what it is but I'm getting this vibe of everything you're throwing off_

When he looked next she'd phased, and she was standing there, naked in the forest, moonlight dappling her skin, which shone with the lightest sheen of sweat. "Good night," she growled.

_Sweet dreams,_ he throws back.

"Whatever," she mutters, tossing him one more glare from over her shoulder.

When her eyes settled on the huge wolf, blackened silver fur and amber eyes, her breath caught in her throat.

She'd heard him through his _thoughts_. And here she was walking away on two legs while he did it.

* * *

He watches her do it. He's phased but he's watching her check her watch, date and time, and feels her come to a decision. This has been happening a lot, lately. At first it had unnerved him, the shock of Leah's thought clearly projected, even if she wasn't phased. So he'd call her on it, knowing that she would go bat-shit crazy if she thought he was wandering through her mind. He'd try not to concentrate on it; it was especially bad if they were both wolves, but it was constant. Her thoughts hummed gently in the background like a radio for the most part, but if she was in a heightened state of emotion – didn't matter which one – he'd feel it like a sledgehammer. Her anger made him shake, made him growl; her fear was lead in his stomach.

He felt her anger towards Sam and he knew. Oh, he knew that rage, which hurt, the sick feeling whenever that person's name was mentioned. And Leah put up with it _every_ day. Not only that, but she was pretty much guaranteed to see Sam on a regular basis. Paul had to endure hearing about Rachel from Emily – her best friend from high school – and from Jake, whom he still had contact with, but he hadn't seen her for over a year. He wasn't sure how he'd react to seeing her next, he knew it was inevitable.

He was pretty certain that Leah wouldn't actually be _successful_ in killing him. But she'd sure make sure she fucked him up while trying. He'd enjoy that, Leah deserved it, and so on a whole, he wasn't too concerned. They fought _vampires_, and fighting _vampires_ was like fighting a wrecking ball. Jake had survived the worst of it, but they'd all suffered broken bones. Paul had cracked his jaw and fractured three ribs, bruising a lung in the process. But they'd survived. Whatever Leah was planning, he wasn't going to stop her from putting Sam in his fucking place.

He'd been friends with Sam once, close friends, almost like brothers. It helped that they were family, even if it was extended and removed a handful of times. They'd grown up together, all three of them had, and Paul had watched the dynamic change the moment Leah had imprinted on Sam. They hadn't even been _phasing_ at that time; no, back then Paul had chalked it up to a hardcore crush on both their parts, like a couple of…well, a couple of stupid teenagers. Which is what they were, Paul had deduced when they started talking about getting married after graduation.

And then the April before school let out, Sam got _sick_. Mono or some shit like that, and Sam missed two weeks of school before he came back. And then Paul had caught whatever Sam had because two weeks after Sam got back, Paul was sick at home, his father keeping a close eye on him and calling Sam when it got worse. So Paul was a fucking _wolf_. And come graduation? Well, most of Leah's family had come to that, including her mom's family from the Makah rez upstate. One look in Emily's direction and Sam had imprinted and severed whatever had been between him and Leah.

That had never really sat well with Paul. He understood the imprint, and like Leah, he didn't fault Sam completely, but he was still heavily to blame for the complete three-sixty that Leah Clearwater did after that blow. First she'd raged – sweet, fun-loving Leah had turned harpy and insults flew, coupled with screaming fights and thrown objects. Sam had kept mumbling that Leah didn't understand, and never could, but she knew. She knew that Sam was breaking up with her, was breaking her heart because of her cousin, her best friend in the world.

Next, Leah folded and faded, locking herself in her room when she wasn't at school, turning her back on her friends – which, was relatively easy because as wolves, they were already turning their backs on her. _That_ had never sat well with Paul, either. But Sam gave the order and Paul had to bite his tongue around her. Couldn't hang out with her anymore. One by one they'd done it to her, first Sam, then Paul, then Jared and Embry, and finally Jake, before Leah was let in on the prank, but by then, the damage had been done. She'd turned bitter and sarcastic, nowhere near the girl she had been, and Paul just wanted his Leah back – wanted the girl with the million watt smile and the black and gold eyes back, and he was willing to do anything to get her.

Even if it meant killing Sam. Or at least attempting it.

He was running through the forest when he watched her do it. He and Jared were running patrol, due to meet up with Embry and Brady at Hart Spring a mile and a half up from Second beach to be debriefed before the watch changed. But Leah knew that Sam would be coming to meet the four of them before they all ran back up La Push road to Emily's kitchen to eat before the evening shift. It was like clockwork, really, and Paul had warned Sam once or twice about changing this part in the routine. If they were ever tracked by leeches, said leeches would catch on pretty quickly if they kept running the same pattern. Sam had listened but never took the warning to heart, feeling that if leeches were watching them that closely, surely they'd know anyway.

Maybe Sam should have listened to Paul anyway, because there was no way that Sam could predict what was about to happen . Paul and Jared emerged along the road, the other two trailing behind, and Sam was coming through the trees on the other side, but up the way, there was the distinct sound of a vehicle – big, old, and speeding down the highway.

The truck was huge and old, a beater, a tank, and it barrelled down the 101 with a rumbling growl and a spew of nauseating fumes. It took the turns wide, skidding along the slick asphalt before tearing the shoulder, hopping potholes and the cracks made by giant cedar roots gone feral. From inside the beast came the resonant hammering of a rapid bass drum, a charged bass guitar, squealing lyrics that spoke of love and hate and money and greed. Empty Rainier cans rolled along the floor of the cab, and another one joined the rest, falling from the driver's hand as the wheel was spun tight and a turn was executed, pulling the Bronco up off of its right side wheels for a moment. The driver howled, really let it rip, and the sound got stuck halfway in the throat as a memory surfaced, burning and pale like the sunrise after a heavy rain on the rez. A foot slammed on the brakes and the tires screamed, trying to grab onto something to make the hunk of steel come to a shuddering halt. There, on the road up ahead – first one figure, then two, then suddenly five, all lined up like a bowler's dream, the tallest and blackest at the spot that counted for the most points. One foot stayed the clutch, the other sank onto the gas, and the engine revved as the rear wheel drive kicked in and began to complain. The truck lurched in place, ready to roll, but the bowler wasn't satisfied with the shot.

Not until the current beer was drained and joining the fallen comrades.

Now they were ready. Now they popped the clutch and drilled the gas to the floor and the truck launched straight ahead, a missile at top speed, headed down the blacktop at a panty-wetting one hundred and twenty miles per hour. The tack was edging on red but it didn't stop the speed demon. But the pins up ahead? They scattered. They danced amongst themselves and then shot north and south, to the ditches along the stretch of road. All but one. The ten-point pin, the big money, that mutherfuckin' black one. So the driver leans on the wheel just as they approach, just as the ball reaches the end of the lane, and the driver thinks strike. The wolf looks up at her, staring her down.

The truck hits and it stops instantly, rocking back on the chassis and throwing Leah forward against the seatbelt, only to snap back with a vicious yank. There is a hollow thud, twisting steel screeching, and the bumper clangs as it falls to the ground. Outside the world is still.

When the smoke is cleared and the wolves become men and peel the truck back from its target, it's Paul who frowns first, with a curious grin on his expressive face.

"Huh. Never thought that would work. I'm impressed," he says as the driver hops down from their seat, checking for bumps or bruises.

But she's okay – yeah, she's okay because she's just like them and she comes around the front of the truck and kicks a tire before examining the damage.

"Think Seth will notice?"

Paul rubs his chin and looks at her again. "Notice what? The wolf-shaped dent in the truck or the fact that Sam is a smear of black fur and blood on the One-Oh-One?"

Leah Clearwater shrugs, a grin already on her lips, and she shakes her head. "No, not that."

"Then what?" Paul whined.

"Think _any_ of them will notice?"

"Notice what, Leah?" Paul growls, already tired of her games and thinking about dinner.

She toes a patch of furry, bloody gore with her boot and tosses dark hair over her shoulder. The sun is setting behind her and she grins at Paul and answers: "There's a new bitch in charge." She grabs him at his shoulders and yanks him close, so close that their noses are practically touching. Paul watches her eyes, the slow burn of coal black and gold and suddenly he _knows_. Admits it, actually, lets it fully embrace him. Paul's always known. Her next words solidify it: "I'm taking what's due."

* * *

She'd run him over. _She'd run him over!_ That goddamn _bitch_! And she'd hid him hard, on purpose, he hadn't missed the gleam in her eyes as she barrelled down on him. Now she's standing there with that smug little shit Paul, crowing at her victory. She can't really think she's killed him, can she? Because he admits it's painful, he's probably broken three ribs and possibly fractured his leg, but he'd been through worse the summer before. He'd be okay. And then he'd get her back.


End file.
